


Night Music

by FrostbitePanda



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: 500 followers tumblr fic giveaway, Dialogue, Dragonstone, F/M, Fluff, Missing Scene, Prompt Fill, Some angst, an maybe a bit drunk, and btw isn't it weird that the cancelled season 8? lol oh well, anyway, between the dragon pit and "we sail together", duh - Freeform, fic request, for queenofwinterhell, hope you like it love, i just my absolute fave, in which jon snow has some revelations, in which jon snow is very uncomfortable, lots of talking mostly, marriage propsals are weird, there is a dothraki party, this is me you're talking about
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-06
Updated: 2019-06-06
Packaged: 2020-04-11 12:19:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,858
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19109533
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FrostbitePanda/pseuds/FrostbitePanda
Summary: Davos ducked his head to catch Jon’s eyes. “Any damned fool who spends any amount of time with you finds a leader, a commander, a king in you, lad. It stands to reason that Daenerys Targaryen, a self-made monarch herself, would see that as well, wouldn’t you say?”(In which Jon and Daenerys kind of go on a date. Fic request for queenofwinterhell for my 500 followers fic giveaway on tumblr.)





	Night Music

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Katester311](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Katester311/gifts).



> the prompt:
> 
> #between the dragon pit and the sail together scene#angsty#lusty#pure jonerys trash of how we got to that knowing look of eventual boatbang

 

 

“Jon Snow.”

 

He stopped short, turning to face her on the steep stone causeway. She was heading back into the castle, returning from her examination of the ships that would be ferrying her Unsullied to White Harbor. He was heading to the beach, to supervise the last of the Dragonglass transports. 

 

He cleared his throat and bowed. “Your Grace.” 

 

Daenerys stopped on the landing, the same one where they had stared out at an amber sky and had their first real conversation without the hindrance of Hands and thrones and all the like. It seemed like a entirely different lifetime, now. 

 

She waved her escort off and they continued up to the castle without her. He tried to rein in his stupid heart, kicking up within his chest at the prospect of being alone with her, even in this open attitude, with nothing but gray sea and gray cliffs to look upon. 

 

She clasped her hands in front of her, as she was so fond of doing when in thought. Maybe he should take up the habit. It made her look steady and solid as a stone, whereas he always left his hands empty and twitchy at his sides. Not very kingly of him.

 

_ Well... _

 

“How fares the excavation of the Dragonglass?” Daenerys asked mildly, not quite looking at him. 

 

“Better than we could have hoped, Your Grace,” he replied with a tiny, grateful smile. “I was just on my way to see the last shipments off.” 

 

She drew her lips over her teeth and looked away once more. She seemed oddly restless, uncomfortable. “I will not keep you long, my lord, I know you have much to do and prepare for.” 

 

Jon remained silent, eyes roving over her curiously as he awaited whatever it was she wanted from him. 

 

She laid a hand on top of the rough stone wall next to her before turning fully toward him. She cast her eyes to her feet, as if gathering herself. “I’ve been reconsidering the conditions of our alliance, Jon Snow.” Her eyes met his, finally, and she looked thoughtful, as if eager to see his reaction to such a declaration. 

 

The words themselves were not altogether foreboding, but Jon felt unease take hold nonetheless. He glanced away, trying to remain as impassive as possible. “What conditions do you wish to alter, Your Grace?” 

 

She looked at him for a moment, her eyes searching and unreadable, something hiding within the small uptick of her mouth. “Such things cannot be discussed here, my lord,” she demurred. “I wonder if you will dine with me tonight... privately, if that suits you.” 

 

He almost--  _ almost _ \-- coughed in surprise. Well,  _ that _ certainly was not what he had been expecting. He managed to get a handle on himself, ducking his head to hide whatever expression was threatening to expose him in that moment. “Of course, Your Grace.” 

 

She smiled at him and he couldn’t help but smile back, like the fool he was. “Excellent,” she chirped, straightening her spine, preparing to leave him. “Meet me back here at sunset, Jon Snow.” She turned back to the stairs, beginning her ascent as Jon was left befuddled in her wake. He had assumed that he would be meeting her at her quarters. Were they to dine here? On a cold, bare landing perched upon a cliff?

 

“Oh, and Jon...” He looked up at her, his stomach doing something queer at the sound of just his first name shaped in her voice. “Dress…  _ down _ a bit. You might get hot in all those furs.”

 

Now he was really, _ very _ confused. And maybe a bit mortified. 

 

He bowed to her before he turned to continue his way to the beach.

 

+++ 

 

“Something troubling you, Your Grace?” 

 

Jon shook his head as he watched his men and the Dothraki he had been working with for nearly two months loaded the last of the barrels of dragonglass onto the dinghys that would take them to the ships anchored just off shore. “Nothing more than what troubled me yesterday, Davos.”

 

He should have known better than to even try with Davos Seaworth. The man was a shrewd old goat-- Jon assumed that his skills for observation and seeing through falsehood had been well sharpened in his days as a smuggler. It was what made him such a good Hand, afterall.

 

“Beggin’ your pardon, Your Grace, but I don’t think I really believe that.” 

 

Jon sighed and looked to his feet, deciding there really wasn’t much else for it. “The queen spoke to me just before I arrived.”

 

Just as Jon had assumed, Davos’ face lit up as it seemed to do everytime Jon brought up the queen. A poorly hidden smile wound its way under his gray beard, his eyes twinkling with that same mischief that Jon imagined the old man would have given his son whenever he would mention a lady he was wooing. “Oh?”

 

Jon nodded, watching more and more barrels being rolled from the cave mouth over the packed sand of the beach. They would have to bring in more dinghys at this rate. “Aye. She wishes to… revisit the conditions of our alliance.” 

 

Davos’ eyebrows would have disappeared into his hairline if he had possessed it. “And what conditions would those be, Your Grace?”

 

“You need to stop calling me that,” Jon replied instead, hoping he could change the subject. Davos looked entirely unconcerned, blinking at him expectantly. Jon huffed in defeat. “She wouldn’t speak about it. She… wants to discuss it over supper.” 

 

Jon felt the heat rise in his cheeks under his Hand’s patient and infuriatingly knowing scrutiny. After a moment, Davos cleared his throat and looked back out to the gray line of the ocean. It truly was a dismal day-- chilly and drizzly. “Seein’ as though it’s to be my one of my last days on land for nearly a month-- and in close quarters at that-- I thought I would request some much needed privacy this evening, Your Grace. I had meant to ask you earlier, but it slipped my mind.” 

 

Jon was too confused by this response to answer him, only looking over at him with a creased brow.

 

“My point bein’...” Davos continued, bouncing on the balls of his feet, “am I expected to attend what sounds like a very official meeting of state and politics, or may I adjourn to my rooms with a good book and a pitcher of ale?” 

 

Jon couldn’t help but smile, if only slightly. “No, my friend, you may stay to your rooms tonight and enjoy your solitude.” 

 

Davos inclined his head. “Many thanks, Your Grace.” 

 

Jon looked over to him curiously. “You seem rather unconcerned that the queen wishes to renegotiate an alliance that is quite vital to our survival, Davos.” 

 

Davos folded his hands behind his back, eyes roaming over the silver line of the beach. “You know what struck me as curious back at the Dragon Pit, Your Grace?”

 

Jon barked a laugh at that. “I can’t imagine what would be more curious than a gathering of Cersei and her cronies, Dothraki bloodriders, the last Targaryen and everyone else besides.” 

 

“Tyrion Lannister is the queen’s Hand, correct?” Davos went on, wholly unaffected. 

 

Jon blinked, not catching on. “Well, yes, but what does that--”

 

“And  _ I _ am your Hand, Your Grace, though it may be an unofficial title.” The old man tilted his head to the side, looking lost in thought, his brow wrinkled as he was so wont to do. “And you told me that you bent the knee to the queen not hours after it happened… because that is what is expected, considerin’ the nature of the relationship between a monarch and their Hand. Even if you’re a right secretive bastard when you want to be, beggin’ your pardon, Your Grace.”

 

Jon didn’t answer, his own thoughts turning inward at Davos’ words, recollecting the near-fucking-disaster that was the Dragon Pit parley. 

 

“So, it stands to reason that as a fellow Hand to a fellow monarch, that I found Tyrion Lannister’s seeming ignorance of you bending the knee to his own queen quite curious indeed.” 

 

Jon turned to more fully face his Hand, thrilled and terrified in equal measure at the implications behind Davos’ words. “What are you trying to say, Davos?” 

 

Davos mimicked his movements, so they were now face-to-face, attention now squarely upon one another, instead of what they had set out to oversee in the first place. “How many times has Daenerys Targaryen asked you to bend the knee since we have been guests here, Your Grace?”

 

Jon had to think for a moment, ticking off all said occurrences he could recollect in his mind. “At least seven, that I can remember. Most of them weren’t, well,  _ obvious _ , but...” He’d also been  _ encouraged _ by Tyrion and Varys on multiple occasions, and even once by Lady Missandei.  

 

“Would you say that gainin’ your fealty was perhaps one of the queen’s highest priorities since we arrived?” 

 

Jon felt like something was stuck in his throat, the realization just now dawning on him. He simply nodded. 

 

“Why would the Dragon Queen, who for weeks has wanted nothin’ more from you, the King in the North, to bend the knee, not tell her closest advisor that such a long sought after prize had finally been achieved?” 

 

So many things had happened at the Dragon Pit, Jon had hardly any time or space in his mind to consider why Tyrion would be ignorant of such…  _ relevant _ news. Everything that his Hand was telling him was absolutely the truth of it, and the possibilities behind Daenerys’ decision to withhold such information from her Hand was, quite simply, daunting. 

 

Jon swallowed, trying to gather himself. It was quite obvious that his Hand had his own thoughts on the whole strange affair, and Jon was impatient to get on with it. “I think you know just as well as I, Davos, that I have no inkling as to what the queen may have been thinking by not informing her Hand about me bending the knee.”

 

Davos looked away for a moment, sighing, as if quite disappointed in his king. “There are only two reasons that the queen wouldn’t tell her Hand about such a thing, Your Grace, and one is quite impossible.”

 

Jon simply waited, hands flexing behind his back.

 

“That you have proven yourself somehow an unworthy ally,” Davos supplied with a nod. 

 

Jon laughed dryly at that. “I appreciate your confidence in me, Davos.”

 

“It isn’t bloody confidence, it’s the truth,” Davos barked, his mood turning sour. His Hand often grew this way whenever Jon was being, well, the bastard he had always thought himself to be, instead of the ‘ _ bloody king’ _ he was. “You rule the largest kingdom in the continent she hopes to rule in time. You have the Riverlands  _ and _ the Vale sworn to your cause through your blood. You underestimate yourself, as always, Your Grace.” He heaved a heavy, tired sigh. “Besides, if that really were the truth of it, she wouldn’t bother herself with tellin’ you as much over supper.”

 

“Aye, you’re right,” Jon answered quietly after a moment. “I’m sorry, Davos. It’s still hard for me to… accept, most of the time.”

 

Davos’ expression softened as his eyes turned back to the line of workers rolling the barrels down the beach. “There’s nothin’ to forgive, lad,” he said, reverting back to his paternal habits that Jon had come to miss. “The only poor sons of bitches who should be sorry are the fools who treated you like you were lower than dirt for so long.” 

 

Davos had expressed these sentiments before, even before he ever served him as Hand, before Jon was ever named a king. The man standing next to him had seen something in him that Jon would never be able to fully comprehend. Something that was enough for Davos to seek the help of a woman he loathed, whose power he saw as evil and perverted, just so that Jon-- a man he had only known for barely a month-- may live again. Jon had yet to wrangle a reason from Davos behind his queer decision, but it was moments like these where Jon came ever closer to understanding. It made him feel powerful and even, sometimes,  _ worthy _ despite his instincts to the contrary. 

 

“ _ That _ is why I seem so unconcerned, Your Grace,” Davos continued after a bout of thoughtful silence. “Because the only plausible reason left for a smart, strong queen like Daenerys Targaryen to not tell her own Hand that a rebel king had finally bent the knee to her is that she doesn’t see you as vassal lord any longer.” Davos turned to him again, his mouth a grim line, his eyes bright with love and admiration. “She sees you as the king you are, Your Grace. You bending the knee seems beneath you, now.” 

 

Jon felt frozen in place at Davos’ words. He swallowed hard, coming to fully understand what his friend was implying, but unwilling to believe it all the same. “You think… she means to allow me to rule as King in the North? After all this over?” The question sounded as foolish aloud as it had in his overtaxed mind.

 

Davos chuckled, shaking his head, his eyes telling Jon that he saw right through his paltry defenses. “No, Your Grace.” 

 

Jon felt his mouth go dry, his hands grow numb. He coughed, shaking his head as he looked to his boots. “Davos, I value your counsel, but I think you are mistaken.” 

 

“Why is this so hard for you to believe, Your Grace?” Davos asked, throwing a hand out in bewilderment. “You have the makings of a king in you, Jon. The Night's Watch saw it and named you their Lord Commander. The Northern lords, as prickly and nasty as they can be, saw it and named you their king— despite your name, despite your birth. Stannis saw it, too, wanted to name you Warden of the North. Even the Red Woman saw it. She believed there was power in your blood or some such nonsense.” He paused, shook his head and barked a laugh. “Seven Hells, even the  _ wildings _ saw it in you. They came to fight for you. That damned grumpy bastard Sandor Clegane... Gendry and Beric… the list goes on, Your Grace.” 

 

Jon stood, tense and uncomfortable as ever, trying to distract himself from what to him amounted to praise too lofty to be sincere. 

 

Davos ducked his head to catch Jon’s eyes. “Any damned fool who spends any amount of time with you finds a leader, a commander, a king in you, lad. It stands to reason that Daenerys Targaryen, a self-made monarch herself, would see that as well, wouldn’t you say?” 

 

Jon swallowed hard, looking to his feet again, hands clenched tightly behind his back. He scuffed his boot into the sand, feeling twitchy, flighty, his nerves singing at what his Hand was proposing. Breathing impossible, damning life into the wild, inconceivable thoughts he had had himself after Daenerys had come to pluck him from a frozen lake a half a world away.

 

“My instincts are rarely ever wrong, Your Grace,” Davos pressed, his voice lower and kinder than it was before truly making sure that they would stick. “It’s what saw me through countless sticky situations in my smugglin’ days, and it’s what saw me to be servin’ as Hand to two great kings, though one might have been misguided.” He stopped, his lips twitching. “Stannis Baratheon was the man who I believed to be king of the Seven Kingdoms, but I can admit when I’m wrong.” He paused, looking over at him, his expression cautious. “I stood for you to be named King in the North, Your Grace, knowin’ full well that you deserved more. That the Seven Kingdoms couldn’t hope to find a better king.” Jon started at that, looking up at his Hand, his friend, with a newfound understanding, and no small amount of fear. 

 

Davos simply smiled at him, as knowing and as proud as ever. He pointed back up to the mighty keep looming above them. “I’m from the lowest of the low, lad, and I can tell you as sure as the sky is blue that if you and the Dragon Queen had been handling’ things in King’s Landing back then, I wouldn’t have had to step over a river of shit whenever I walked out my door. So, I’m askin’ you now: do you have any reason to think otherwise, besides your own damned humility?” 

 

It was no use trying to deny it. In some foolish, naïve recess of his brain he had idly entertained the idea. An alliance through marriage made sense, on paper. He was king to a realm Daenerys needed on her side if she were to take the throne. But he was also a bastard, a king that held no blood right. She was the last Targaryen-- a woman who had birthed dragons and brought entire nations across the Narrow Sea. What could she possibly want with him, besides to be a vassal lord to do her bidding? 

 

He had naturally rebelled against the idea, at first-- serving under some queen who knew nothing of the North, turning his home and people over to a foreign monarch who aimed to conquer. He was well beyond that prejudice now, and had been fully prepared to be at her beck and call for the rest of his days. 

 

But, now, he was facing down a completely different prospect, and it scared the shit out of him. 

 

Davos clapped him on the arm. “You two make a fearsome pair already, if you don’t mind me sayin’ so, Your Grace.” He smiled at him, and Jon did not know what he had done to earn such a look of pride in Davos’ face. “She’s the only woman in the world worthy of you, I suspect. And, it is in my esteemed opinion that she suspects the same from you. It is the official counsel of your Hand and even, dare I say,  _ your friend _ , to go into this… renegotiation with the confidence of a king and a suitor, not with the deference of a bastard and vassal lord.”

 

Jon couldn’t really take all of this in. There were many things inside of him screaming that what his Hand was saying was the truth of it, and that this evening was to be very interesting indeed. But there was another, more needling part of him that kept slicing its way through, cold and incredulous, urging him to shake such foolish notions off. Him, married to the rare creature that was Daenerys Targaryen? Him, Jon  _ Snow _ , standing next to her as a king of not one kingdom, but of them all? 

 

He’d be a fool to believe it, and a fool to deny it. 

 

He finally nodded, swallowing hard, looking back to Davos who was regarding him with such warmth and love Jon felt his eyes heat. “And I appreciate and value your counsel, my friend,” he said, his voice rough. He paused, his lips twitching as he looked back to where the last of the dinghys were being shoved off into the tide. “Tell me, Ser Davos, what is your cousel as to what to wear to this audience?” 

 

Davos barked a hearty laugh. “The only advice I can give you on that account, Your Grace, is to not ask me about such things as fashion. I’ve been wearing the same bloody leathers since I was rescued from Blackwater Bay.”

 

+++ 

 

His nerves dogged him throughout the day, though he had been distracted properly by logistics and numbers and all the like. 

 

But his anxiety only grew as he climbed down the stairs at sunset. 

 

It was a brisk evening, though not nearly cold enough to warrant his furs. He wore only his gambeson and hauberk, no cloak or gorget. The clouds from the day had cleared, revealing a bruised sky, shot through with bands of gold as the sun melted away into the sea. 

 

Daenerys stood at the landing as he had anticipated (perhaps a bit too much), but she was not alone. Grey Worm and Missandei stood with the queen, limned in amber evening. Grey Worm wore his usual sleek, black leathers, Missandei dressed similarly. 

 

But Daenerys was adorned in such a way he had never seen before, and suddenly he had an inkling as to what they would be doing that evening. She wore a painted leather vest, leather skirts and trousers, boots and hand wraps. 

 

“Your Grace, my lady,” Jon greeted Daenerys and Missandei with his usual awkward bow. “Commander,” he added, nodding to Grey Worm.

 

Missandei grinned and curtsied, while Grey Worm nodded back. He was conspicuously unarmed. Daenerys, on the other hand, simply  _ beamed _ at him, all her earlier nervousness seemingly dissipated. Quite the contrary, she seemed almost…  _ excited _ . 

 

He didn’t think he’d ever seen a sight so lovely. 

 

Jon recalled one of Daenerys’ many titles as he looked at her— “ _ Khaleesi of the Great Grass Sea” _ . He knew it to be Dothraki for “queen”, but never fully appreciated what that world  _ really  _ meant, until now. 

 

_ This  _ was Daenerys the  _ khaleesi  _ standing before him, and the thought of her granting him access to this still largely mysterious facet of her life— a seemingly precious one at that— made him a bit dizzy. 

 

“Jon Snow,” Daenerys greeted, taking up his offered elbow as they began their way down the winding stair. “When was the last time you’ve had any  _ fun _ ?”

 

He couldn’t help but laugh. “I’m not certain, Your Grace. My time at the Wall didn’t allow for much… amusement. And neither has my time as king.” 

 

Daenerys sighed, bringing her other hand up to cover her fingers that were curled around his elbow. “I suspected as much.” She looked at him as they reached the bottom of the causeway at last and stepped onto the beach. “There are two things that must be addressed before we continue with this evening, my lord.”

 

“You need only ask, my queen.” 

 

He glanced over to her at her hesitation, wishing he could see her face better. She seemed almost  _ flustered _ . She pulled her lower lip over her teeth. “First, I must ask that you call me by my name. This will be a long, tiresome affair if you are to address me formally all evening.” 

 

He fought whatever queer thing gripped him then, Davos’ words flashing back into his mind like the bloody fool he was. “Aye, as you wish.”

 

“And secondly,” she pressed, tapping his arm with her thumb, “how does the King in the North fare with drink?”

 

Jon shook his head. “I hope I do not disappoint you when I say that I am something of a lightweight.” 

 

“That’s quite alright, my lord,” Missandei chirped from behind them, arm in arm with Grey Worm in a similar fashion. “Grey Worm can’t have more than one cup of wine before he starts acting foolish.” 

 

Daenerys laughed and Jon looked from her back to the pair behind them. Now he was truly bewildered. Were Missandei and Grey Worm…? If they were, would that mean...

 

_ Fuck. _

 

Thankfully, he was distracted by the sound of drums. He looked to the horizon, where the orange glare of many fires somewhere in the distance rimmed the dark forms of the dunes they were now climbing. Luckily, some secret, stony stair had been discovered and cleared the way to the moors beyond, preventing them from having to tramp through the reeds and thorns of the dune grass. “What exactly do you have planned for me, Your Grace? Do you aim to get me drunk and make a fool of myself?” 

 

“Daenerys,” she corrected lightly, “And that may be just a small part of my plan, Jon Snow.” She looked over at him, something wicked and playful glinting in her eyes that nearly stole the breath from him. “But do not worry, my lord, any man who dares call you a fool will in my presence will not dare to do so again.” 

 

Jon did not fully trust himself to speak, so he simply nodded and they continued their way up the dunes and over the moors in silence. 

 

+++ 

 

The drums were raucous. The fires blazed and reached high into the night, blotting out the stars. Women and men danced and sang around them, while others gathered to pass drink and food from hand to hand, telling jokes and high tales from the battlefield.

 

He sat by one of the many fires with Missandei and Grey Worm, watching the festivities unfold in some wonderment. All the celebrations he had ever participated in (which were very few, to be fair) proved to be sedate, morose affairs compared to the unselfconscious merriment he was witnessing now.

 

“What are they celebrating?” he asked Daenerys after they had arrived.

 

She smiled at him, a bit conspiratorial. “Do they need a reason to celebrate?”

 

“Well, no, I suppose not,” he conceded. “I am just not—“

 

“ _ Khaleesi!”  _ came a shout from ahead. A short, plump woman strode up to them excitedly, greeting Daenerys with a bow. She stepped toward her and kissed her cheek, the two obviously old friends. Jon stood somewhat awkwardly to the side as the two women seemingly caught up with one another in a tongue he did not understand. He had thought that the Dothraki he had picked up during his time on Dragonstone was somewhat an impressive achievement, but now he was coming to realize that that had been a foolish notion. 

 

After a few moments, the strange woman looked to him questioningly and then back to her queen. She seemed to ask a question and Daenerys nodded, answering with a grin. The woman stepped closer to him, her gaze critical, before she tilted her head and said something else to Daenerys, dark eyes growing cheerful. 

 

Daenerys laughed and turned to look at him, grinning. “Kella, here, says that you are too short to be a  _ khal _ .”

 

Jon was many things, but insecure about his height was not one of them. He snorted and nodded to her. “And what do you think?” 

 

She smiled at him, but was promptly whisked away by a knot of excited Dothraki women before she could elaborate. 

 

Now, he sat on a driftwood log next to a fire, twirling a tepid cup of watered ale as he tried vainly to not watch Daenerys mingle with her subjects. To take in every detail of her smile, of how her very  _ being _ seemed to shift, here among her adopted people. To watch every curl and twist of her mouth as she spoke in their foreign tongue as if she had been born into it. 

 

“Dothraki is actually not that hard to learn, Your Grace,” Missandei told him with a sweet smile, breaking him of his spell. “It’s no High Valyrian or Old Ghiscari.” The woman snorted, smiling secretively, as if she had made a fine joke. “I may teach you if you like.”

 

Jon nodded to her, taking a sip from his cup. “I would be most grateful, Lady Missandei, to learn from a teacher as adept as you,” he replied. “But you should perhaps not call me that anymore. I am not so sure the queen would approve.” 

 

Missandei’s brows knitted together. “Call you what, Your Grace?”

 

He tilted his cup towards her. “ _ That _ .” 

 

It took Missandei a moment before her eyes cleared with understanding. She looked quickly to Grey Worm, for some reason, before nodding. “Of course, my lord.” 

 

Jon tried to wrangle his sudden apprehension by distracting himself and poured himself another cup of ale. “You can call me ‘Jon’, you know,” he countered as he passed the flagon over to her and Grey Worm. “I suspect that we will be working closely together for the foreseeable future. Seems foolish for you to keep calling me by titles.” 

 

Missandei nodded with a small, knowing smile. “I suppose that would be practical.” 

 

“I was not there to see you pledge for our queen at dragon pit,” Grey Worm began as he took the flagon from Missandei, “but I wish I had.” He poured himself a cup and held it out to Jon. “I believe this is the custom? We touch cups to celebrate blessing?” 

 

Jon smiled and held out his own cup, feeling humbled. “Or to wish for one.”

 

“Wishing is for fools,” the man countered, knocking his cup against Jon’s own. “We drink to you and our queen.”

 

Jon hesitated, just for the briefest of moments. He wouldn’t necessarily count his bending the knee as some great blessing to Daenerys and her cause as Grey Worm had deemed it. He was leading the queen and her people into mortal danger, into a war that very well could kill most-- if not all-- of them. He was leading her away from the quest for her throne, for glory and all that came with it. 

 

He felt his heart sink as he took a sip of his ale. What could possibly be fortuitous about him and his cause? He knew, in his heart of hearts, that it was the right thing to do. That even if Daenerys usurped Cersei and took up the throne she so wished for, her efforts to forge some new world order would eventually prove fruitless as the dead marched ever southward to undo everything she built. But the doubt was starting to seep in, now. The guilt starting to burn in his belly. 

 

But  _ why? _

 

Before he could think on it further, Daenerys’ Dothraki captain, Qhono sauntered over, shoving a flask into his face without preamble. Jon had formed an odd, ramshackle camaraderie over the past weeks with the man, in spite of the fairly thick language barrier. “Drink, Snow King.” 

 

Jon took the skin from him, sniffing at it cautiously. He really wished he hadn’t. It smelled like death. He glanced back up at Qhono, unsure if this was some sort of joke. The man simply stared back down at him, expectant. Jon sighed and took a swig, immediately regretting it. 

 

He coughed as if he had just taken in a lungful of lye. And really, had he not?  _ By the gods _ ... “That’s bloody awful,” he wheezed as he handed the flask back to Qhono. 

 

Qhono laughed as he took up a seat next to him, taking a quaff for himself. “Snow King cannot drink like Dothraki.”

 

“And I’m glad of it,” Jon answered, voice still tight. “What the bloody hells is that?”

 

“Mare’s milk,” Qhono replied, offering the flask to Missandei and Grey Worm, who both wisely declined.

 

Qhono laughed and lifted his flask to Jon in a sort of toast. “Snow King cannot drink, but at least he can fight.”

 

Jon blinked at him. He had sparred a bit with Grey Worm during his time here, but Qhono was never there to witness it, to his knowledge.

 

“Other pale men are shit,” the man continued, spitting into the fire to further his point, “They wear metal shirts because they are shit. Snow King does not wear metal shirt.” 

 

Jon couldn’t help but laugh. “Aye, but a shit fighter alive is better than a good one dead.”

 

Qhono scratched his beard, frowning in thought. “Perhaps so,” he growled, pointing at him. “Only one way to find out, Snow King. We fight.”

 

Jon shook his head vigorously. He had already had two cups of ale on a nearly empty stomach and after the one swig of the mare’s milk, it would be a wonder if he could stand steadily. “Maybe some other day, my friend,” he hedged. “I cannot fight the likes of you while I’m in my cups.”

 

Qhono shook his head, looking disappointed. “Drunk is best time for fight,” he asserted, lifting his flask and taking a long draw. “Courage comes. Fear flees.”

 

“Even so,” Jon answered with a shrug, taking a bracing sip of his ale. 

 

They sat silently for a time, watching the celebration bloom and shift before them. Couples slinked into the shadows to couple unquietly, men grew raucous and slovenly, women brazen and giddy. Jon found it as fascinating as he did alien. 

 

Daenerys appeared again, arm in arm with a wizened old woman. Her brow was creased and her mouth downturned as she listened to whatever the crone had to tell her, nodding thoughtfully. The fires warmed her white skin, illuminated her frost-pale hair. Jon could not help but be mesmerized, if even for a moment. 

 

“ _ Khaleesi _ say you came back from death.” Jon started, looking over at Qhono in confusion. Qhono smirked and Jon did not much like the knowing look in the man’s eyes as he nodded to his queen. “You swim across lake of ice and ride horse through haunted forest. We tell it that you did it to return to her.” Jon swallowed, his hand growing strangely numb as he turned his eyes to the fire. “My  _ khaleesi _ also conquer death, Snow King. She know. She walk from fire unharmed. Twice she did this. One with dragons, one with  _ khalasar _ . Dothraki follow strength, so we follow  _ khaleesi _ .” The man sighed, pressing a fist to his chest. “We follow Snow King who conquer death. A true  _ khal _ for our  _ khaleesi _ .”

 

Jon’s mouth went dry, his voice all tangled up, lost in the bramble of his brain. Did the khalasar…  _ know _ about him? Jon had assumed, in some subconscious fashion that they knew who he was, but only in the most superficial of ways. There was quite a difference between being acknowledged and being  _ known _ . 

 

“Besides,” Qhono went on, “there is no greater enemy than death, Snow King.  _ Khaleesi _ tell us that is why we ride north. So that we may also defeat death, and be celebrated as  _ khals _ and  _ khaleesis _ in the Night Lands.” The man smiled. It was a queer expression to see on a person normally so stern, but there was also something strangely serene about it all the same. “There could be no greater glory for her  _ khalasar _ .”

 

Jon was very, very relieved when Daenerys finally returned, looking flushed and…  _ incandescent _ . “Jon Snow,” she declared, “I believe you desired to buy a horse?” 

 

+++ 

 

The clouds had cleared and the moon was as bright as a torch. It set the moors into a stark, milky pallor, the knotty mosses throwing strange shadows onto the ground as they plodded carefully through the rocky terrain. 

 

“The horses are corralled right over that rise there,” Dany explained, nodding to the west. 

 

“And I can just pick any horse I want?” Jon asked her, stunned. “There has to be thousands and thousands.”

 

“The best ones are kept separately.” 

 

Jon tilted his head at that. “I am to have my pick of the best?” he asked incredulously with a little, derisive laugh. “I do not wish to deprive one of your captains of his horse.” 

 

Dany shook her head with a titter. “Do not worry, Jon Snow, none of my bloodriders will come for your pretty head.” 

 

“My head is pretty, is it?” He asked, strangely brave. The ale, he decided. It must be the ale.

 

Daenerys just smirked in response, and they slowed as they approached the makeshift driftwood rail of the small corral. They both ducked under the fence a bit less gracefully than what was probably expected of royalty. The horses within were twitchy, unused to visitors at this hour, but they calmed within a few moments. 

 

Jon let his lungs fill with the musty smell of horsehair, the fresh tang of crushed grass and sedge. It loosened every chord and tendon within him, the scent so achingly familiar he felt his eyes heat. He approached a piebald gelding, clicking his tongue and yanking his glove from his left hand so the beast may take in the smell of him. The horse sighed into Jon’s hand and he felt a warmth bleed through him that he had not felt in some time.

 

He always held a strong affinity with horses. As a boy in Winterfell, a bastard unwanted at family functions, he found solace in the quiet jostle of the stables, the freeing nature of saddle and bridle that could carry him anywhere he wished-- far away from the constant reminders that he was merely tolerated, never truly desired. 

 

He had never revealed such bone deep secrets to Daenerys before, but he had some needling suspicion that she somehow  _ knew _ what this kind of place would mean to him. 

 

“Jon,” she called softly and what he saw when he turned his head nearly took his breath. 

 

She stood next to an inky black stallion, nothing but a void girded by starlight amongst the windy moors. Daenerys was already a small woman, but seemed some sort of dwarf next to the beast she was now stroking and shushing as if he were no more than a dog. 

 

“Seven hells,” Jon whispered as he walked forward, sliding a palm up the creature’s snout. The horse tossed his head, gave a little whicker. His mane was long and wild, his legs stout and feathered. He seemed some fearsome war horse from legend. “He is beautiful.”

 

Daenerys smiled, pleased that he admired such a creature. “This was Rakharo’s horse. Rakharo was  _ quoy quoyi,  _ blood of my blood. He was murdered in the Red Waste, after I had sent him to find salvation for me and my people.”

 

Jon paused, the words sinking in slow and painful as he stroked the horse’s neck. He knew well the anguish and guilt that came with command. The decisions made that may mean life for many, but death to few. 

 

Daenerys stepped closer to him, coming to stand directly in front of the magnificent horse, her face sad and ruminative. “We were starving. I did not want to send him away. He knew it. But he also knew I did not have any other choice.” She pulled her lips over her teeth, struggling with herself, the memory awful and secret-- a scar that only she carried. Jon felt his lungs close up as she took a steadying breath. “The horse who carried such a man deserves a rider just as worthy.”

 

Jon cleared his throat, his heart beating loudly in his chest. “Daenerys…” he began roughly, “I cannot possibly deserve such an honor.”

 

Daenerys chuffed the horse under his chin, scratched his cheek. Her obvious ease and respect of the animal only served to send a surge of admiration and arousal that he definitely did not need to contend with at present. “You are a vexing man, Jon Snow,” she replied, her voice low, strangely amused. “You give yourself so little credit.” 

Jon looked away, realizing now that he might have offended her. He licked his lips and looked back to the horse before him. “What is his name?”

 

_ “Ajjalani _ ,” she told him solemnly. “It means ‘night’.”

 

“ _ Ajj— Ajjalani, _ ” he repeated, looking back to Daenerys who nodded in reassurance. “Seems fitting.”

 

“Do you like him?”

 

“Yes, Your Grace. He is one of the most beautiful horses I’ve ever seen.”

 

She smiled, obviously pleased, but her expression shifted to one of skepticism— as if uncertain he was truly real. Jon had not one inkling as to why she may look at him like that.

 

“I think we should go for a ride,” she said, her smile turning sly. 

 

Jon looked back from where they came, where the festivities they had just left were still in full swing. He could hear the distant throb of drums. “You wish to abandon the celebration?” He had to call after her, for when he turned back to her, she was striding off into the night, picking a horse out for herself. 

 

“I wish to go for a ride, Jon Snow,” she called back from the gloom. Jon peered into the dark, losing sight of her among the shadows. 

 

Just as he was growing just the smallest bit anxious, shifting uncomfortably next to his new steed, she came galloping up to meet him, astride a stallion the color of a moonbeam. 

 

“I have been either at the prow of a ship, or upon the back of a dragon,” she told him, looking about her as if suddenly in an unfamiliar realm. She took in a great lungful of the night wind. She seemed transformed when she looked down at him, her eyes glinting in the darkness. “It has been far too long since I have looked upon the world from the back of a horse.”

 

+++ 

 

The surf crashed and rumbled in the distance as they settled their mounts, the horses tossing their heads at the prospect of an easy walk upon firm sand, awhirl in a cool seawind. 

 

All about them was black, the horizon lost save to their left, where the stars drowned under a plane of black ocean. It was disorienting, thrilling, feeling so small. It threw him off-kilter, beneath a vault of timeless torches, marching along the endless, ceaseless tide. 

 

Him and Daenerys hadn’t spoken in nearly half an hour, as they rode through the night-filled hills of Dragonstone. Jon had tried to strike up conversation, the silence and general absurdity of the situation leaving him a bit unmoored, but he soon gathered that Daenerys was somewhat in her element— an element she had sorely missed, and she was not much interested in quieting his nerves. Quite the contrary, she appeared determined to scare the bloody life out of him. Dashing about the cliff tops at searing paces, whooping to the sky, cajoling him into races and all the manner of reckless deeds. 

 

His half hearted attempts at entreating royal decorum and protests based upon such mundane things as life and limb had very quickly withered at the sight of her, white and blazing and red-cheeked in the wash of the winter moon. Her usually immaculate hair a wild banner flowing from her shoulders, her chest rising and falling-- the pulse of the ocean and the charge of the starlight powering her as good as any sea sprite he had ever heard of. 

 

“You ride well, Jon Snow,” she called over to him. 

 

“Aye,” He panted, his heart still roaring in his ears. “Not as well as you.”

 

He saw her pleased look before she could turn away.  _ Seven hells, _ he was just starting to believe Davos, now. 

 

They walked their horses in a strangely tense silence for a time, before Jon couldn’t take it anymore, his brain clumsily and frantically recalling all the strange and potentially life-changing consequences of the day in a blur. “Pardon, Your Grace--”

 

“Daenerys.”

 

“Daenerys,” he corrected with some difficulty. He name on his tongue felt strange and wonderful all at once. “Why did you bring me out here? You said you wished to renegotiate the terms of our alliance--”

 

“I saw your scars, Jon,” she interrupted steadily, “I know that no ordinary man could have survived what you survived.” She looked at him, her gaze intense and searching, almost beseeching. “What happened? How did you survive?”

 

Jon looked down to his reins, the memories of his death floating back from the dark ether where he had locked them away. His voice caught in his throat. “I am not certain I should tell you.”

 

Her mood turned, her eyes sharpening. “And why is that? You think me fragile?”

 

“I think you skeptical.”

 

She was silent a moment at that, the words seeming to wound her. “I don’t blame you for that, Jon Snow,” she began quietly, her voice edged with regret, considering what her earlier reservations about the Night King and all else had wrought. She was quiet for such a long while, he had to try to calm his nerves, fearing he had offended her beyond repair. “Have you heard the tale of how my dragons came into the world?” 

 

He was not expecting that, and he had to stop himself from releasing a breath of relief. “I’ve heard tales, yes, but I suspect that is all they were: tales.” 

 

She inclined her head, understanding, no doubt having heard some of these wild rumors herself. “When I was sold to the Great Khal, Illyrio Mopatis gifted me with three dragon eggs-- turned to stone by the ages, though still priceless and beautiful.” She bit her lip, thoughtful. “I don’t think I will ever know if Illyrio truly understood what he was doing, giving me those eggs… but I kept them near me at all times. I felt… a bond with them I cannot properly describe, though they were merely pretty colored rocks.” She looked over at him, brow creased. “The sigil of your house… it is a Direwolf, correct?”

 

Jon nodded mutely, not comprehending her point, only eager to hear more of this near-legend from the source herself, to shamelessly indulge in her rare presence. 

 

“And you and your siblings… you have Direwolves as companions, do you not?” she continued. 

 

“Most are dead or lost,” he replied, voice turning rough with grief. “Ghost is the only one who remains, to my knowledge. I miss him.”

 

Daenerys gave him a sympathetic look. “You are surely the only person I have met that could possibly understand what I mean.” 

 

It took him a moment to realize what she was speaking of. He blinked, a lump forming in his throat. “Aye, I suppose I do… to a certain extent, but I cannot help but think that my bond with Ghost is much different than that of you and your dragons.”

 

She peered at him, her eyes narrowed ever so slightly, as if she were not sure of the sincerity of his answer. “I suspect that the two are not directly comparable, but the similarity is there all the same.” 

 

He ducked his head. “Aye.” 

 

“When my husband died, I had a great funeral pyre built for him, and I laid the eggs about his body.” She went on after a thoughtful silence. “I ordered the witch who murdered my husband, Mirri Maz Duur, lashed to a post, to act as kindling to his passing into the Night Lands. And, to much horror and protest, I walked into the blaze. When dawn came, I emerged unharmed, with three dragons at my breast.” 

 

Jon recounted the so-called ‘tales’ of Daenerys Targaryen and the birth of her dragons he had heard at the Wall. None proved as spellbinding and tragic as the one the woman herself had just recited for him-- a newly made widow, lost in a strange land, striding from a pile of ember and ash newly made, the Mother of Dragons. 

 

His heart felt as heavy a mill stone. 

 

“I am magic, Jon Snow,” she murmured, her voice gentle. “And, based upon the scars you bare, so are you.” 

 

He had to bite down a scoff. “I am not magic because a witch brought me back from the dead, Daenerys.” 

 

She looked affronted, her eyes flashing in the moonlight. “How is it that you died, Jon?”

 

He swallowed hard, vainly trying to banish the image of the quicksilver glint of knives in the night, of the hate-filled faces of his fellow Brothers before his blood melted into the snow and nothing more. “Mutiny,” he supplied, voice like a tangle of thorns, “I allowed Wildings south of The Wall. I intended to save their lives… from swelling the ranks of the Army of the Dead. My Brothers… they did not think--”

 

“Enough,” Daenerys spat and Jon glanced over at her, stunned at her reaction. She looked ready to spit fire, to call down Drogon from the skies and ride away to death and ruin. 

 

He did not know what to think about that. “I-- I am sorry if I have offended--”

 

“The only thing I find offensive about your tale, Jon Snow, is that I was not there to see those men dead with my own eyes.” She looked at him and he was reminded of that day on the beach, ages ago now, when she had strode towards him with a storm brewing in her eyes and entreated  _ him _ of all people for advice. “They  _ are _ dead, correct?”

 

Jon nodded mutely, mouth gone bone dry. “By my own hand.”

 

“Good.” Her voice was clipped, but her shoulders loosened, lowered. “You said a witch brought you back..” she continued, more sedate this time. “Who was this witch?” 

 

“The Lady Melisandre, the Red Woman.”

 

Daenerys was silent for a very long while. Jon glanced over at her, his apprehension rising fast at the almost sickened look on her face. “Do you know her?” 

 

He watched her throat work as she gathered her composure. “She paid me a visit here. She came before me to beg that I send for you.” 

 

Jon had no inkling as to what to say to that. Why would the witch want him to come to Dragonstone? What nefarious intentions could she possibly have? What perverted imaginings did she conjure from her flames? 

 

“I came here, Jon, to reclaim the throne that was stolen from my family.” Her voice was strangely shaky and it only served to set Jon more on edge. “To claim vengeance against those who destroyed my home. To forge a new and better world for those who cannot protect themselves from the wheel of deceit and greed that has rolled over them for centuries.” 

 

“Aye,” he replied lowly, “and you will have it.” 

 

She shook her head, looking oddly irritated. “I meant what I said at the Dragon Pit, Jon. If I had listened to you, everything would be different. And not just with Viserion, but... with my  _ purpose _ .” She looked at him, then, her mouth a grim line, her eyes alight with a furious hunger. “They call me Breaker of Chains because I have made it my mission to cast the yoke of slavery from the world. How can I call myself that if I do not wage war against a bondage that not even death can break?” She leaned closer to him, her heat and energy searing him as good as a brand, stealing his breath. “I was too blind to see… until you, Jon Snow, and that is a debt I will never be able to repay.” 

 

“You speak as if it is some sort of blessing, Daenerys.” He shook his head, his mind awhirl with everything she was telling him. “Even with everything you have given, we may still not win. The Night King… he is a mystery, maybe too powerful for--” he stopped, eyes slamming shut as he thought of Viserion, laid low by a single, lethal shot. 

 

“We will win,” she replied, voice deathly calm. It was not meant as reassurance in the face of his rising panic, only a declaration. A royal decree that would not be rebuked.  

 

Strangely enough, he felt soothed by this. And how could he not? How could he doubt such a creature? A woman who had tempered herself within the fiery heart of a funeral pyre and had become something of a dragon herself. Fire could not kill a dragon, but it could lay the dead to rest forever. 

 

“And when we win, Jon Snow, will you remain in Winterfell?”

 

Jon did not quite know what to do with this question. She, of course, knew the answer… was this some sort of jape? A strange game? No, Daenerys was not in the habit of playing games. “After we have secured your throne, as your Warden in the North, my place will be in Winterfell. Unless you require otherwise of me.”

 

Her hands twitched on the reins, her lips pulling taught over her teeth, before she looked over at him, her eyes strangely lit, anticipatory. “And what if I were to require otherwise of you, Jon Snow?” 

 

If he wasn’t scared beyond his wits before, he certainly was now. His conversation with Davos not hours ago flashed painfully in his brain and he had to swallow back a cough. “Anything you require of me, Your Grace--”

 

“ _ Daenerys _ ,” she corrected again, this time stern. 

 

“Daenerys...” he amended carefully, “whatever it is, it shall be done.” 

 

She looked almost aggrieved at this, her eyes casting down to her hands wrapped around the reins, the lines around her mouth carving in deep. “I take what is mine, Jon, with fire and blood.” She glanced at him quickly, as if gauging his reaction. “I tried to take you, with the fire and the blood of my sons.” 

 

“Daenerys…” he gasped, not really knowing why. Not really knowing what to do or where to tread. 

 

“I could not succeed then, and I cannot now. You came back to me… of your own will. And, in this thing I ask of you, you must do the same.” He opened his mouth to reply-- with what, he did not know-- but she shook her head, a small, abortive motion that struck him mute. “I would have you renounce your title as Warden of the North, Jon Snow.”

 

His heart was pounding somewhere near the top of his throat. He was teetering on the edge of blind panic and some heady, foolish elation. “May I ask why?” he managed, voice cracking.

 

Daenerys was silent for a time, bringing her horse to a stop amongst the frothy surf. He followed suit and she straightened her spine, looking every inch the queen she was. “Because it is my opinion that you do not belong in Winterfell. That you and your gifts would be wasted on one realm alone, Jon Snow. That we have been brought together for reasons I may never be able to comprehend… and I cannot bear the thought of parting from you again.” The last sentence seemed to be an admission that was not meant to be uttered, for she grimaced, but carried on, eyes overbright and head held high. “That you would make a much better king.” 

 

He remembered watching her land in a storm of flame and hide upon a spit of stone. He remembered waking up on that swaying ship, the pale nimbus of her coalescing from the makings of dreams, into sweet reality. He remembered how she stepped into the sand of the Dragon Pit— the memorial to the ruin of her house— from the shoulder of a dragon. 

 

He remembered all these times he thought he could not love her more, and could not help but think of what a fool he was. 

 

“I know that I could command you to do this thing, and you would do it,” Daenerys presses, her voice weakening in the face of his inaction, no doubt. “But that is not what I seek. I seek your agreement, as what I ask is not a blessing, as I am sure you know. It is a selfish thing— I would aim to keep you from your home and family, to aid me in decisions large and mundane, to weather days of—“

 

“You don’t have to do this,” he cut across her, able to withstand her frantic reassurances no longer. “I know, Daenerys. I know what it would mean.”

 

The expression on her face was inscrutable, and he wanted nothing more than to reach across the space between them and show her all the things he was unable to tell her. Her chest hitched, and she looked away, grounded and bereft all the same. For a time, only the rumble of the surf and the soft ‘coo’ of a burrowing owl could be heard, and he felt as if they were the only two people left upon the earth. 

 

He found his voice, gathered his courage, willing himself not to delay, as she was slipping further and further away from him before his very eyes. “I have not thought much about life after the war before us, Daenerys. For many reasons that I am sure you already know... but I have been bound to solitude for so long, I never dared hope that-- if I should survive-- I would ever know a life without it.”

 

She looked ready to laugh in delight, to scream in fury, to grab him up and kiss him, to drum her fists upon his chest. “I know loneliness, Jon. You and I, we have been alone too long. We both… I believe we both deserve to know it no longer. Especially when we emerge from the fires of war, together.” She swallowed, released a long, steadying breath. “I would only have you beside me for the same reasons I would be beside you.”

 

She would not tell him those reasons, not now, not here. He knew this, because he could not do it himself. The words were dangerous. What laid between them was dangerous. There was power. He had always known, but now he could look upon it, the brush and bramble she had deftly cleared away with her words allowing them both a bravery they had not had before, but to journey there now could prove treacherous. 

 

They had ridden to the foot of the palace beyond his awareness, and he blinked dazedly at it, as if he had emerged from some imagined landscape, from some unmapped and unnamed shore that had belonged only to them for a brief time. 

 

“You do not need to answer me now, Jon,” she said quietly from beside him. 

 

He had the wild urge to  _ laugh _ , damn him. He had spoken truly when he had told he had not thought of his life after the war overly much, but he  _ had _ thought of what that moment would be like-- after her kingdom was won and she sat resplendent upon a throne of her own making and they exchanged their farewells. 

 

He had lost his ability to walk away from her long ago.

 

But he knew that to give her what they both desired in that moment would only make things worse. She  _ wanted _ him to take the time, wanted to be  _ sure _ that he was coming to her for  _ her _ . Not for duty, not for power or wealth or whatever else. And she wanted him to be sure that she was offering because of  _ him _ , not for political gains or simple boredom. 

 

So, he merely nodded, not trusting himself to speak, and they made their back to the corrals.

 

+++ 

 

“If we sail together, I think it sends a better message.”

 

He felt his heart hammer against his ribs. He clenched his hands at his sides as he looked to her, waiting for her, waiting for her to see his answer laid bare within his words. The answer he would have gladly given just a night ago.  _ I will not be parted with you again. _

 

He watched as a tiny light of understanding kindled behind her grey-green eyes, as her mouth twitched, just a bit. She nodded. 

 

“We sail together.”

 

+++ 

 

_ “But sometimes _

_ I can almost feel the power _

_ Sometimes I am so in love with you” _

 

\-- “In California” Joanna Newsom

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> it's more angsty than strictly lusty, my love, but i hope you like it!
> 
> i know that this isn't the fix it fic that people are craving right now, or an update to Oz or whatever, but I had been so fucking close to finishing this before i was quite literally traumatized by season 8, that i just had to finish it before i returned to my other projects. 
> 
> anyway, i hope it still provides some comfort and some warm Jonerys feels for all of you sweet angels weathering this shit storm. enjoy, and tell me what you think!
> 
> (this work is unbeta'd and thank you OH SO MUCH to the brilliant Justwanderingneverlost for her never ending supply of beautiful mood baord. you are an angel, my friend.)


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